


Acceptable Distractions

by mischievous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mischievous/pseuds/mischievous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=113640858#t113640858">this prompt</a> on the sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme: <em>After a particularly trying week, a very exasperated Mycroft has to deal with a mountain of paperwork. Anthea left hours ago and the cleaners are busy doing their rounds. But it's okay because [male character of your choice, no incest please] brings him a cup of tea, gently strokes his hair and proceeds to give him a mind blowing blow job.</em> I went with Mycroft/Lestrade because... who wouldn't? ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acceptable Distractions

It’s a testament to how wrapped up Mycroft is in his work that Lestrade has been able to lean against his office door frame for the last five minutes without drawing his attention. Mycroft looks as immaculate as always but Lestrade can read his frustration in the way his brow is deeply furrowed and the way he almost scores his signature into the paperwork he’s checking and signing. The week has been long for both of them; he hasn’t seen Mycroft for five days, hasn’t even spoken to him in the last two. 

In the corridor behind him, the cleaner clatters as he cleans and Mycroft looks up, distracted, his gaze falling on Lestrade in the process.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, taking in the sight of Lestrade in his doorway with a cup of tea in either hand. “Actually-- how did you get _in_?”

“I think the night staff are fond of me,” Lestrade says lightly, shrugging as he straightens and moves towards Mycroft’s desk, carefully setting the tea down where it can’t be spilt. “They know you’ve let me in here before, so they didn’t mind letting me in when I said I was stopping by to visit.”

Mycroft’s frown turns into a scowl. “I’ll have to speak to them,” he says in displeasure. “They can’t be trusted to use their own judgement, nor can they simply allow people to waltz in whenever they feel like it.”

“It’s not ‘people’,” Lestrade sighs, “It’s _me_. I like to think you don’t mind me visiting you at work when I haven’t seen you for days.”

He walks around the desk and hops up to sit on the edge. Mycroft leans towards him without conscious thought, seeking out a respite from the work that still awaits him. Mycroft can pull all the faces he likes about it, but Lestrade can tell he’s pleased that he’s there.

“Besides,” Lestrade adds. “I brought you tea.”

“I can see that,” Mycroft says, regarding the styrofoam cups with deep suspicion. 

Lestrade rolls his eyes. Mycroft will undoubtedly complain about drinking out of such plebeian containers, but Lestrade is fairly sure that if he’d just dropped it off and left, Mycroft would already be half way through his cup. He nudges the arm of Mycroft’s chair with his knee and Mycroft shifts so he can rest his head against Lestrade’s thigh.

“Where’s Anthea?” Lestrade asks, gently carding his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, letting his fingers linger in the soft, reddish-brown strands, scratching his fingernails gently against his scalp. “Did you send her home already?”

Mycroft hums in contented agreement, his eyes fluttering closed. “There wasn’t anything else for her to do here, so I thought she might as well go home and get some rest.”

“And you?” Lestrade asks, continuing his gentle massage. “When are you going to get some rest?”

Mycroft lifts a hand to wave vaguely at the piles of paperwork that still litter his desk. It’s the answer Lestrade expected even if it wasn’t the one he’d hoped for. He knows Mycroft Holmes better than most, and so he knows that tempting him away from the office while there’s still work to be done is near impossible. But on the bright side, tomorrow is Sunday, the day Mycroft traditionally reserves for the two of them, so unless someone commits a murder that he has to deal with between now and Mycroft getting home, they may stand a chance at spending some time alone together. For now, though, Lestrade has something else in mind.

He tightens his fingers in Mycroft’s hair just enough to get his attention, not enough to hurt, waiting until Mycroft’s eyes open and meet his, then leans down to kiss him. The angle is awkward and the position isn’t comfortable, but the way Mycroft reacts is just right, sparking the fire inside Lestrade that’s been smoldering since he closed his case.

“Greg...” Mycroft’s voice breaks helplessly, and the look in his eyes combined with the way he licks his lips more or less kills off the last of Lestrade’s self-restraint.

“Take a break, My,” Lestrade says, standing up and encouraging Mycroft to do the same. 

The protest he expects doesn’t come, which speaks volumes about how his week has gone. Because Mycroft stands willingly, stepping into Lestrade’s personal space to kiss him again, and Lestrade guides them both towards the leather couch he’s so fond of without breaking the kiss. Before Mycroft can settle them both on the couch, Lestrade’s hands fall to his waist, unzipping his trousers, and Mycroft’s ohsosoft moan of almost-protest is lost in their kiss. Lestrade hooks his fingers in the edge of Mycroft’s silk boxers, pushes those and his trousers down together, and uses his body to nudge Mycroft backwards until he falls onto the couch. Mycroft is looking up at him then, lips reddened and kiss-swollen, pupils blown, and right now Lestrade can’t remember a time before this, can’t quite recall a year ago when he was married and didn’t know how it felt to touch Mycroft Holmes.

He drops to his knees, pushing aside the faint twinge of protest from his body, his hands settling on Mycroft’s legs, thumbs brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Mycroft tenses, as if remembering that his office door is still ajar, and Lestrade leans in, dragging his tongue up the length of Mycroft’s shaft to distract him. He doesn’t want Mycroft to _think_ , he just wants him to _feel_ , and the key to stopping Mycroft from thinking is always distraction.

Mycroft’s head falls back against the couch and he moans again, his hips twitching under Lestrade’s hands. Lestrade smiles to himself and takes the tip into his mouth, sucking gently, freeing one hand to wrap a thumb and finger around the base of his cock, tightening his grip as he swirls his tongue across the tip. He licks his way up and down the length and then swallows him down, suppressing the instinct to gag in favour of taking as much of him as possible. Mycroft’s hips are rolling beneath his grip and Lestrade half-hears his own name, almost lost amongst the whimpers, as he pulls off to suck lightly at the tip, letting the weight of him linger on his tongue.

He looks up and Mycroft is looking at him, his gaze heated and _needy_ , and Lestrade takes him into his mouth again without breaking their gaze, the resulting gasps and groans sparking a fire inside them both. It doesn’t take long before Mycroft is whispering nonsense and babbling promises, eyes closed and head thrown back. Lestrade hums softly in response and Mycroft comes undone.

Lestrade rides out the tremors and then carefully pulls away, resting his head against Mycroft’s thigh, pressing a gentle kiss to the soft skin there. Now that he’s less focused on Mycroft, he’s aware of the niggling pain in his knees and back, and after a moment he rises from the ground to join Mycroft on the couch. 

Mycroft curls into him and kisses him then, tasting himself, and runs a hand down Lestrade’s chest, lower and lower, until he can cup a hand around the bulge in Lestrade’s pants. His breath catches, and his hand covers Mycroft’s, stilling the movement.

“I thought you had work to do,” Lestrade says gently, because he’d really like Mycroft to leave the office and come home at some point tonight, and this really wasn’t about him.

“It can wait,” Mycroft says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't really played about with this pairing before, so it was a little out of my comfort zone and I'm not sure it really worked. I might revisit it at some point and see if I can improve it.


End file.
